


The Art of Omission

by jcrowquill



Series: The Unpublished Folios [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon, Gen, M/M, UST, very gentle slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 12:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcrowquill/pseuds/jcrowquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes exclusion of Watson from his professional life following his engagement to Mary Morstan leads to high tensions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Omission

**Author's Note:**

> ACD, between SIGN and SCAN. Casefic with very light slash. My very first Sherlock Holmes slash! Posted originally on LJ (jcrowquill.livejournal.com) and on the holmesslash Yahoo Group on 3/15/2011. It makes me feel a little nostalgic reading it... maybe I'll go back and write the continuation after all. :)

There is a stretch of time between what I have titled 'The Sign of Four' and 'A Scandal in Bohemia.' It is easy enough for a reader to assume that my engagement to Miss Mary Morstan was brief and I departed Baker Street within days of where I closed that narrative; marriages, especially between persons of our class, were not so complex an arrangement or too great an expense, and indeed Mary had little family with whom I needed to plead my case. However, various small arrangements seemed rather monumental at the time, such as finding marital lodgings and arranging for our few acquaintances to be present at the same time, and we did have a modest engagement that lasted several months.   
  
During this time, Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street took no less than eighteen cases, fourteen of which were momentous enough for inclusion in the newspaper. He, of course, took no credit for these adventures and sat in his chair with his long legs stretched out on an ottoman, cursing the banality of existence and the lack of incredulous employments.   
  
"You see, my dear friend," He commented over the twelfth case's minor summary, "Despite the fanciful adjectives applied to the article, this story is nearly identical to the case last week of Ms. Williams missing jewels. The main difference was that Ms. Hunt was a much better actress, but nonetheless her demeanor, and the cuff of her sleeve marked with the oil from the hinges of the safe, gave her away quite clearly."   
  
"I should have liked to have seen, Holmes," I said, looking at him over the rim of my teacup.   
  
"It lacked the particularly romantic, sensationalist pull to which your heroic heart is a willing captive," He chuckled to himself, setting the newspaper aside.   
  
In truth, I had been quite excluded from his cases of late, aside from their summaries. Holmes was spending his days either in the arms of Morpheus or in hot pursuit of some small but lucrative fact-finding. At times, he alternated so closely between the two that I was concerned that his senses would be too dull for him to assume one of his many disguises or stealthily navigate his usual haunts. However, regardless of how recently he had pressed the needle into his forearm he was always light on his feet and as meticulous as ever. I suppose there was no need for concern, though I felt it quite keenly; an unwound watch remains still until its master again turns the key, and the mechanical man was very much the master of his own gears and cogs.   
  
"Bah, Holmes," I said dismissively, "I could use the distraction, you know."   
  
"You should distract yourself with your intended," Holmes pointed out, gesturing vaguely with the stem of his pipe.   
  
My intended came up frequently. Either Holmes was telling me to go visit her at her rooms with Ms. Forrester or I myself was prattling on about a man supporting a wife and household on only a military pension. Indeed, it was something that concerned me quite fiercely; Holmes and I had cohabitated for some time as a means of sharing expenses. The former had seen an exponential increase in both the number of and compensation for his consultations, but my income had remained fixed and it was largely through his household purchases that my life had become more comfortable.   
  
"She has her own distractions, Holmes. I know you tend to think that the fairer sex has little more to do than sit prettily waiting for us, reading novels, but Mary is still quite busy as a single woman," I laughed.   
  
He rolled his eyes fondly, picking up the paper again, "Yes, I can imagine that she would be, planning to unite your households as she is..." Before he could continue that line of thought, a stiff knock at the door alerted us to the presence of one of Holmes many visitors. He popped to his feet like a coiled spring as though releasing some pent-up kinetic energy.   
  
Holmes opened the door in a smooth, practiced movement and beckoned in a very pretty young woman. Her carriage was naturally erect and her movements light. She had a wonderful delicacy of her features and a soft, persuasive mouth. She smiled at my companion and said, "It's good of you to see me a second time, Mr. Holmes! I am in a positive fit of fright! I received the most ghastly letter!"   
  
I was slightly disappointed to find that it was a case that was already in progress and I had missed its introduction. Holmes, for his part, did not hasten to bring me up to speed on the developments or even introduce me to the newcomer, "I am certain that you have brought with you the letter, Miss Clark? I do believe that that will answer a good many questions."   
  
He accepted the proffered letter and waved his hand distractedly for her to take a seat on any available piece of furniture. She glanced about for a place unoccupied by a book or newspaper and that was when she first laid her gaze upon me. In her emotion, she had entirely missed that she was not alone with the celebrated detective and she seemed surprised by my presence, "Oh! Mr. Holmes! I am not interrupting, am I? Is this gentleman another of your clients?"   
  
Holmes blinked a few times, then said, "Not a client, no... though I suppose I could see where your confusion originates, as I have rudely failed to introduce you. Miss Clark, this is my good friend, Dr. John Watson. He has occasionally assisted me in my research and you should feel at ease speaking your concerns as he is a man of the utmost propriety." There was a tinge of dry amusement or possibly of irony touched his voice, then he continued, "Watson, this is Miss Victoria Clark. We are researching an odd affair of her brother's recent disappearance."   
  
"I fear poor Algie dead!" She murmured, ringing her slim white hands.   
  
"It has yet to be determined," Holmes said absently, his eyes taking on the increased lustre and shallow focus that sometimes occurred when he transitioned between observing and reflecting. "This is curious..."   
  
"Yes, I woke this morning with it on my pillow beside me, on my own paper... the windows and doors were still locked..."   
  
"Your correspondent's writing is very precise," my tall friend commented, "Very bold, emphatic crossbars on his t's and f's. Here, Watson, I shall read it to you and perhaps you can give me your impressions of it:   
  
Miss Clark,   
  
It is quite the pleasure to behold your sleeping face. The locked windows present no challenge to me; such obstructions only serve to make me angry. I would suggest leaving your windows and door unlocked or else I will write the next letter in your blood."   
  
"My, that is brazen!" I said in surprise, "To enter a lady's sleeping chambers and leave such a note... Miss, I am quite glad that you're here to see Mr. Holmes!"   
  
My dark-haired friend rolled his eyes a little at my affected response, then carefully refolded the letter and tucked it back into the envelope. He handed it back to Miss Clark, "The content of the letter tells me little, unfortunately. I would recommend ignoring his demand of unlocked door and windows and instead ask your servants to check in on you hourly.   
  
"Oh," She murmured, her bodice rising and falling quickly with her rapid, rabbit-like breaths. She hugged the letter to her chest, "Yes, Mr. Holmes... I will do that! Do you feel that there is danger?"   
  
"Some, but it is certainly avoidable."   
  
A few instructive moments later, the young lady was gone and the two of us were left alone again in the sitting room. Holmes took up his place in the armchair again and picked up his newspaper. From my position on the settee, I couldn't see if he was deep in contemplation or if he was actually immersing himself in the daily. As was my habit, I picked up a book and waited for him to address me when his idea had gelled into something tangible.   
  
It was a quarter of an hour before he folded his paper and got up to get his coat, "I'm going out, Watson... I should be back soon."   
  
"Where are you going?" I asked, surprised, "Is it on Miss Clark's behalf?"   
  
He looked at me for a moment and then laughed and resumed buttoning his jacket, "No, no... that one should be quite settled shortly. The lady is in no danger; her brother's disappearance is financially motivated and was assisted by someone within the house, I am certain that they should receive a ransom letter within a day."   
  
"Oh," I said, rather disappointed. There were two levels of disappointment registering here; the shallower being that I had hoped that the case had some substance that would make it worthy of chronicling. The deeper was that Holmes seemed to have no inclination to share with me his process in deriving this conclusion or including me in further rumination on the topic. In an effort to coax him into an explanation, I asked, "How can you be certain?"   
  
"Well, her family clearly has a good bit of money. According to the paper, both brother and sister have been promised to rather well to-do families, but the commentary lacks the snide remarks usually reserved for social climbers. You may have also noticed that Miss Clark is well-dressed with fine posture."   
  
He picked up his hat as though he had concluded his explanation. I pressed, "Do go on?"   
  
Holmes looked amused. It lit his eyes in a way I suddenly realized I had not seen in a few weeks as he pulled on his cap and smiled to himself, "The letter is written in a strong hand without much variation from parallel in the lines. Had you seen the letter, you would have noticed that the lines were quite straight and not distorted by a single quiver. Clearly the letter was written beforehand and delivered to Miss Clark's beside -- had it been written in the dark and with some excitement at the fear of discovery the penman would not have been able to accomplish such clean precision."   
  
"Meaning that someone supplied the writer with Miss Clark's stationary ahead of time."   
  
"Indeed. And most likely placed the letter for him as well."   
  
I sat back, thinking through the clean line of reasoning. It did seem rather simple when he laid it out that way, simpler even than the cases that I had been privy to. I asked, "So where are you going?"   
  
"My stores run low on some of my habitual supplies, Watson, and I feel the need to replenish them." His smile was charming and challenging, as though daring me to find fault with his vices. I often had pointed out the detrimental effects of both his tobacco and his considerably more dangerous injectable, but a degree of futility had set in with my protestations to both and I often found that I couldn't muster the nerve to be dismissed again by the brilliant, panther-like detective.   
  
Nonetheless, I summoned a weak, "Holmes, I do wish you wouldn't..."   
  
He chuckled, "I know. 'Poison my intellect and fill my lungs with smoke.'"   
  
I sighed weightily, "Indeed."   
  
"Well," he smiled infuriatingly, "Soon it will be out of sight and out of mind, my dear friend."   
  
And with that, he headed out into the street and I was left to ponder over the paper and other daily tasks. I set about to them with a vigor that I must admit I did not feel, for my thoughts were travelling the streets of London with my pale, lanky friend and wondering at the passive disregard that had been slowly mounting in the past few weeks. I had started to feel as though I was being carefully extracted from Holmes' life as methodically as if the great master detective were decanting a chemical with a pipette.   
  
  
It was several hours before he returned, and when he did things seemed surprisingly normal. He settled into his chair and played a few of my favorite songs on his violin, then talked rather animatedly for a time about absolutely nothing at all. It was the way I liked to spend our evenings at Baker Street, one of us claiming the settee and the other the armchair directly to the left. As it grew later, he didn't seem to tire but my own energy rapidly dissipated. "Come now, Watson," Holmes said, poking my arm with the butt of his pipe, "It's scarcely eleven and we're hardly old men."   
  
Nonetheless, shortly after I bade him good night and retired to my room. As I dropped off to sleep, I could smell the surprisingly soothing aroma of his tobacco smoke. I had fitful dreams that I couldn't recall by the time I awoke (considerably later than I had intended), but they left a dull pall of unease on me as I walked into the parlor to find Holmes reviewing a letter that he had received in the mail.   
  
"Ah, good morning Watson..." He said, looking up at me after a moment. He held the letter up to me and said, "It appears that Miss Clark was stolen in the night."   
  
"That doesn't fit your story, does it?" I asked, reaching for the letter.   
  
He pulled it back from me with his dark eyebrows raised slightly, "Don't insult me, dear friend, of course it does. I doubly expect that they will receive a ransom letter today. Mr. and Mrs. Clark have called me to look over the lady's room for clues."   
  
I waited for the invitation, but when it did not come I said, "I should like to come along, Holmes."   
  
He had an odd expression between amusement and annoyance, "Why? Tell me why."   
  
I felt oddly taken aback by the question. How many times had my friend asked me to come with him, without even telling me where we were going, only a time and place to meet? Occasionally with a casual mention to bring my revolver? I licked my lips a little uncertainly, then said, "It is always interesting to watch you work..."   
  
"What will you do, Watson," He laughed, standing and stretching his long limbs casually, "When you have settled into domesticity, with your doilies and woven hearth rugs? Your evenings will be spent absorbed in novels and needlepoint..."   
  
"Holmes," I said, quite unsure what this had to do with the situation at hand, "Be that as it may, I am not yet domesticated and for the time being I would very much enjoy observing your casework."   
  
"So you have a story to tell Mary when you visit her? Watson, I believe you are more addicted to adventure than you claim me to be to cocaine, and I feel it may be better to wean you from it before you are suddenly entirely without macabre excitement. It would be deleterious to your marriage for you to be pining for a fresh murder scene while your beloved reads aloud to you from whatever is presently in fashion."   
  
I felt warmth come to my checks, "That is nonsense. So you're telling me that your recent secretive habits and my entire exclusion from your work have been 'for my own good'?"   
  
"Yes, to an extent," he brushed by me, "And to some extent, my own. I must re-accustom myself to working alone."   
  
I seethed a little, though I kept a very civil voice, "So is that what this is about?"   
  
"What?" Holmes asked casually, looking back to me. His face was frustratingly calm, though there was a hint of color along his well-defined cheekbones.   
  
"Your neglect of your friendship--"   
  
"Neglect!" He said in outraged surprise.   
  
"Yes, neglect. Leaving at all hours without telling me, spending your remaining time in a stupor... Holmes, I have barely spoken to you for weeks!' I said hotly, only realizing the truth of it as I said it aloud.   
  
"And when you have," Holmes said, slightly coldly, "You've done little more than sigh over your fiancée or complain about your petty financial concerns. I should prefer to be blissfully unaware... and were you in my place, I imagine your feelings would fall along the same lines."   
  
I waivered for a moment in my righteous indignation. Had I been so preoccupied that I had truly spoken of nothing else? Had I missed something crucial that had upset the other man or failed in my own duties as a trusted friend through my own self-centered absorption? I began again, "Holmes, you could have just told me that you were irritated..."   
  
"I endeavored to show you, though I have to tell you that your lack of observation has reflected as being intentionally obtuse."   
  
"Why can't you ever just say things directly?" I demanded.   
  
He walked over and pulled his coat on, "I am going. You can come if you would like."   
  
"I would like," I said. It might seem strange, but I felt the oddest, most childish urge to stomp my foot. Fortunately for my dignity, I did not for I was certain that he would never let me forget it.   
  
"You needn't be so snippy."   
  
"Holmes," I asked impatiently, "What is this about?"   
  
"Deduce, Watson,” he responded shortly, resting his hand on the mantle.   
  
"You're unhappy that I am getting married."   
  
He tapped his nose as though we were playing charades, smirking. He gestured for me to continue.   
  
I groaned, "Because you won't have an eager companion to regale with your stories and dazzle with your considerable intellect?"   
  
At this point, he gritted his teeth and said, "You think me all vanity."   
  
"You are a great deal vanity."   
  
They were fighting words, I realized as I said them. They didn't have quite the effect I had intended, though in retrospect I suppose I don't know how I had expected him to react. His features took on the distant look of frustrated despair that I had only seen during a low point in one of his cases, "That was a low blow."   
  
I walked over and put on my coat, my teeth gritted slightly, "Shall we go, then?"   
  
"Yes," He said flatly. His voice was even and pointedly cordial, but I could see that the angry fever-flush that had begun on his cheeks had crept down his neck and he was rather blotchy to the collar of his shirt.   
  
...   
  
The carriage ride to the home of the Clarks was one of the most uncomfortable that I could recall. Holmes sat in stony-faced silence, his head bowed and eyes closed as though he were asleep or deep in thought. I could tell, however, from knowing him as well as I did that he was not thinking about this case (which he had professed to have already solved) and was instead eviscerating me with logic in his thoughts.   
  
For my part, I was doing the same, albeit literarily and secretly hoping that the case would end in failure so that I could pen the first Sherlock Holmes story in which the great pretender's skillful brain was unable to thwart the common criminal. I immediately felt guilty for that line of thought, as I did not wish ill on either of the Clark children. However, I did feel a rather smoldering fury with my supposed 'dearest friend' for his seemingly irrational anger with me.   
  
So absorbed in our thoughts were we that the commute had passed with surprising speed and not a single word had been spoken aloud. Holmes climbed out of the carriage first and did not wait for me or indeed slow his steps to my limping pace as he made his way up to the front steps of the grand mansion.   
  
I was surprised to see that he gave the ground only the most cursory glance as he passed, rather than crouching down like a bloodhound and examining footprints and measuring the distance between as was his habit, making whatever inane observations of mud that he was usually keen to share. Instead, he strode up to the door and rang the bell.   
  
Fortunately the servant took a moment to answer the door, allowing me to catch up with my travelling companion. His lanky figure, made only slightly bulkier by the addition of his thick coat, was straight-backed and rather rigid. I could tell by his posture as much as his by curt address to the poor girl who offered to take our coats that he was in a dark mood.   
  
Mrs. Clark was a gracious, slightly plump woman with a penchant for deep colors. Her housedress was elegantly cut from rather fine fabric and she had clearly dressed herself up a bit for the coming of the obscure celebrity by styling her hair and wearing a touch of perfume and a few pieces of slightly over-formal jewelry. She reached forward to clasp Holmes' long, pale hand, "Oh, Mr. Holmes! I am so grateful that you have come! Darren and I are beside ourselves with worry! Both of our children gone and now this horrible ransom letter!"   
  
He shot me a discreet but snottily superior look, to which I just as discreetly rolled my eyes. We knew each other well enough at that time that neither missed the other's gesture nor misconstrued its meaning. He exhaled shortly through his sharp nose and then put on a quick, bracing smile, "Now, Mrs. Clark, I think we will find that there is less to be concerned about than it may seem. May I see both the letter and Miss Clark's room?"   
  
"Of course... my dear Darren has read accounts of your work; he's a great admirer of you, actually, and he made sure that the room was left exactly as it was when we discovered that she was gone," Mrs. Clark said. Judging by how close to good Mr. Holmes she walked, she was also apparently a fan. She glanced over, seeming to see me for the first time. Both she and her daughter were shockingly unobservant, I thought, as she reached over to clasp my hands as well, "And you are Mr. Watson! Oh, I am a great fan of your work as well!"   
  
To my left, Holmes snorted just loud enough for me to hear. I preened a bit, smiling, "Doctor, actually. I am just the humble historian, Ms. Clark."   
  
She tittered flirtatiously in a way that even I found irritating and Holmes could only have found completely ingratiating. He said, "Well, lead on, Mrs. Clark. I am eager to see the last known whereabouts of your missing daughter."   
  
"Of course!" She said, suddenly remembering herself and her predicament. She seemed to soften and sniffled a little as we walked up the steps to the second floor and I found myself regretting my earlier annoyance with her. It was not her, ror any of the Clarks, with whom I was actually angry, I reminded myself. It was none other than the obstinate man whom I had accompanied.   
  
By the time we reached the door to the room, she had worked herself up into a rosy-cheeked, glossy-eyed image of motherly desolation, "Here, gentlemen..."   
  
The room was in chaos, with clothing, cushions, and all manner of items cast about as if from a struggle. Holmes once again brushed by me into the room and made a rapid circuit of it, from the lady's small writing desk to her bed, to her windows, to her bureau. He paused to open her armoire and extract her jewelry box, which he set on her vanity beside a small budvase and then rifled through with complete disregard for her privacy that would have made most women blush. I glanced over at Mrs. Clark, then said, "There is surely some deviance at the heart of this whole affair."   
  
"Excuse me?" She said, startled.   
  
"How old were they?"   
  
"Twenty-seven."   
  
"Twins?" He queried.   
  
"No..." She said, shaking her head.   
  
He shook his head and replaced the jewelry box in its proper place. At this point, he walked over to the unmade bed and turned back the sheets before dropping to his knees to look more closely at the assortment of objects littering the floor, "Well, I doubt that this was much of a kidnapping, Ms. Clark."   
  
"What?"   
  
He stood again, then picked up a sheet of her writing paper and turned it back and forth as though trying to catch the light on its surface. He smirked to himself, then pulled out a bound book and flipped to the front, "In any case, I would tell your husband to pay the ransom, but don't expect to see either of your children again."   
  
The lady, stunned, pressed her hand to her heart, "Mr. Holmes... what on earth do you mean? Is my daughter dead?"   
  
Far from his usual fiery, vigorous summation, he seemed to have already passed into the weary, impatient twilight of a case. He turned his intense eyes on her and said, "I suppose the only mystery, then, is why you brought me out here to tell you what you already know - that your daughter and her step-brother have eloped and are now with your assistance ransoming themselves for a sum such that they could begin a new life under a different identity."   
  
She gasped in surprise.   
  
"Though I suppose it is not so much a mystery... you wanted to test the plausibility of your story on an accredited outsider before pressing your husband not to consult the police, but to simply comply with the demands of their kidnappers..."   
  
"Mr. Holmes..." Ms. Clark began, her face losing all of its color.   
  
I waited for him to explain his line of reasoning, but for once he did not rise to the occasion. Holmes shook his head, "It is a frightfully disappointing case and, I fear, quite a waste of my valuable time and even more valuable intellect." His tone was so haughty that even I was surprised.   
  
"How..."   
  
"It is not of any importance. If you remain committed to your story, it may not be found out for some years... and by that point your husband will be so relieved to find his son alive that he will forgive their deception."   
  
The lady's lower lip trembled as she asked a little frantically, "Is there anything I should do? Any way it could be improved?"   
  
Holmes looked around then said, "If the room has been examined by anyone other than me, no." He looked at her a moment, then said, "You have my silence on the matter. Please deliver payment on receipt of my invoice."   
  
His voice had turned clipped and he seemed more than eager to leave. We crossed the lawn after retrieving our coats and then climbed into the carriage in silence. His mood was quite black and dangerously foul, so I commented placatingly, "Well, regardless of the situation, at least it is paying work."   
  
He raised his eyebrows at me as the carriage pulled away from the house, "I suppose, such as it is. I would prefer an engaging murder any day over the banality of young love and domestic deception."   
  
"Holmes," I groaned, leaning my head back against the cushioned seat.   
  
Sherlock Holmes looked me over and said, "It isn't that I wish any ill on the Clarks, merely that I wish that there had been something to the case that would have somehow made it unusual." He snorted to himself, "It certainly isn't worthy of your transcription, for certain."   
  
"No," I said, a little bit piqued by his tone when he mentioned my work. We had often teased and bickered over 'A Study in Scarlet' and the way he spoke of my newer piece was little better. "Especially as you have skipped your trademark summation of the situation."   
  
"Bah, Watson," He said wearily, "You hadn't figured it out?"   
  
"No, do enlighten me."   
  
"Such entitlement,” Holmes commented to himself, settling in his seat to get more comfortable. He was a very tall, long-limbed man and carriages were built more to the proportions of a man who was a head shorter. Having drawn one leg up to his body, heedless of the mud he was applying to the edge of the plush seat, he sighed, "The young man disappeared and his doting sister comes for my assistance, shortly after she receives a threatening letter written on her own stationary. Based on the style, it is clearly an educated, confident young man who has thoroughly rehearsed what he will write. It has a touch of the romantic, a touch of the dramatic. It is clearly a letter from someone who knows the lady and has access to her rooms. His writing style, coincidentally, has several characteristics in common with Miss Clark's, as compared to the writing on Miss Clark's bookplate... but as I mentioned, it is obviously the writing of a man. It would follow that the letter was written by the missing brother, who was obviously taught by the same governess. But why should a brother write such a letter to his sister?"   
  
He smirked a bit to himself, "It was on that point that I had become quite concerned... but as it stands, marriage of a woman to her step-brother is not illegal, despite that it would turn quite a few heads in light of the fact that the father of the house had taken such pains to take his new daughter as own that he gave her his surname. Algie Clark had no doubt intended to run away with his step-sister for some time, but their family's fashionable arrangements for their marriages to other people precipitated an immediate need for action... before the young man could have acquired the fortunes to establish his own household."   
  
"I see," I said, though I didn't quite yet. Having been dropped into the case in the middle, and having skipped breakfast to venture out with Sherlock Holmes, I was not in my prime for reasoning (if indeed such a prime existed).   
  
With his usual acuity at reading my facial expressions, he continued, "What was wrong with her room, Watson? What stood out to you as you looked at it?"   
  
"It all seemed in quite in disarray," I admitted.   
  
"What was missing?" He pressed.   
  
"The girl?" I offered, attempting humor in the absence of facts.   
  
He jerked as though in pain, half-moaning, "God, Watson! You are downright painful sometimes as a companion!" Saying this seemed to put him into better spirits, though, so I didn't protest. He continued, "Her jewelry was missing. There were places where the heavy pieces had rubbed the velvet smooth in the box, but the pieces themselves were gone."   
  
"A kidnapper who intended to ransom the girl could just as easily have taken them, though," I commented, "So why should that be a clue?"   
  
"The rest of the things in her armoire were undisturbed and did not appear to have been searched. She removed them herself. In addition, her diary was missing. There was a space for it in the hutch of her writing desk. A girl who was being dragged away wouldn't have had opportunity to take it, but one at her leisure would never have left it behind."   
  
"So the room was torn apart for appearances," I ventured, hoping to please him with my understanding.   
  
"Yes. You must have noticed that nothing was broken, despite the profusion of whimsical figurines and vases. Nothing had been knocked down that might have made a loud sound and could have brought a servant to investigate. There were also things in disarray that would not have been in the line between the lady's bed and the window."   
  
"I had noticed that," I said, nodding, though I hadn't.   
  
He looked for a moment as though he would call me out, but then he just chuckled to himself in his particular way, "Very good, Watson, then you are improving."   
  
I took the compliment for what it was and smiled, though it was admittedly a thin smile. "But the mother...?"   
  
"The young lovers wouldn't have been able to do it on their own and the mother and daughter are obviously quite close - young Miss Clark is quite the image of her mother. The mother would know that her husband, who does not come from a long upper-class line judging by the lack of title and the recent improvements to their home, would want to make sure both children married well. There was no point in speaking on their behalf for the marriage as he would have no doubt had none of it and would likely be scandalized to boot,” He shook his head, "No. They came and went through the window, for there were no markings to indicate anything to the contrary. She locked it behind them, then 'received' the ransom note several hours later. It came too quickly and lacked any of the scuffs associated with delivery... She accepted it from her stepson with her own hands."   
  
I nodded to myself, sitting back, "Well, it is an interesting enough story, really... it might be worth writing down, with the intrigue and romantic scandal."   
  
He twitched, "Such sentimentality! Leave me out of it, Watson. Create a fictional detective and pawn my sillier adventures off on him!"   
  
I laughed in earnest, despite that he was likely quite serious, "Not every case you have can be murder, Holmes! There can only be so many stories of the two of us breaking and entering - illegally in some cases, I might add - and skulking around side-by-side in the dark!"   
  
"Well," He said, seeming relieved when we pulled up in front of the place on Baker Street, "Your fiction is yours to do with what you will, as I don't imagine there will be many, possibly any, more tales of such midnight adventures."   
  
"Holmes, not this again!" I said, pulling a face and following him up the walk.   
  
'What, Watson? Do you propose to just... leave your blushing bride home while you are gallivanting stealthlessly through the streets of London on errand to make her a widow?" he said drily as he walked up to our rooms. "You have been shot at, if you will recall. They won't always miss."   
  
"I don't see why I can't accompany you occasionally," I said, surprised to find myself hurt again that he considered our adventures over.   
  
"You'll have other responsibilities," Holmes said dismissively, hanging his coat and taking his pipe from its place on the mantle.   
  
"Maintaining a friendship is a responsibility as well. Holmes, why do you act as though I will leave you entirely when I leave Baker Street?"   
  
He looked at him, quite striking with the quick color coming again to his thin cheeks and muscles in his jaw visible as he clenched his teeth on the stem of his pipe to light it, "I don't want to talk about this, Watson. I am in a foul mood and I don't think I will want to speak for days. About anything."   
  
Determined not to let this conversation go before Holmes did indeed hide in one of his dark, oppressive moods or cocaine-induced clouds, I pressed, almost pleadingly, "Please, Holmes, tell me first why you're so angry."   
  
He brought his hand down on the mantle with a surprisingly loud thump. "How can you ask me that?"   
  
I stared at him dumbly.   
  
He continued, apparently not needing any verbal response from me, "I thought we had an understanding."   
  
"What?"   
  
He looked at me as though I were an absolute idiot. I admit that I very much felt the part. He puffed furiously at his pipe, "You dote adoringly on me, I, in my own way, express my feelings of appreciation for you."   
  
My mind worked rapidly through about thirty possible meanings for that statement, but found none for what I believed him to be actually saying. "Dote adoringly.... Holmes!"   
  
"Don't tell me that you don't," he said hotly, turning toward me. "I am the most observant man in London, possibly the world, and you are one of the least subtle, most romantic creatures I have ever met in my life. You do- most certainly-dote."   
  
I once again felt color coming to my face and I felt disjointed as though we had never left the house on our sleuthing errand, and had instead just paused for a half-second breath in the midst of our earlier argument. "What are you talking about?"   
  
"You quite clearly love me," he said, shaking his head. "It's obvious."   
  
"Holmes, what you're insinuating is--"   
  
"I'm not insinuating anything. I am telling you plainly that I know. I can tell by your easy agreement with every suggestion I make, your unwillingness to allow me to go into a dangerous situation by myself--"   
  
"Any friend would--"   
  
"How you take pains to sit as close to me as possible when we both are made to sit on the settee because there is a client occupying the armchair," he continued forcefully as though I had not said anything. "How your eyes appreciatively follow me as I move about. Your descriptions of me in your writing are equally transparent--"   
  
I found myself reeling from what he was saying. I, in love with Sherlock Holmes? It was all nonsense, but at the same time I knew that Holmes was never wrong. A sharp, unusual pang of panic slid from between my shoulders to the pit of my stomach as the tall, lanky creature plowed on through his assertions, "Your sudden, overwhelming love for Mary when you'd only met her? Watson, you, a man of the least decisive nature, should press forward and ask for a woman's hand within a matter of days of meeting her? Then complain of nothing except the complications and expense of supporting a household on a single income? These are the actions of a man who has suddenly realized his own emotions and is trying to put distance between them and himself."   
  
He finally paused, his breath coming more quickly than I had ever seen, even after he and I had walked for hours or run through the London mud in pursuit of some madness. His pulse was visible at his throat as he stared at me, waiting for a response.   
  
I could give him none, so dumbstruck was I by this strange revelation of my own innermost feelings which had apparently been unknown to everyone, even myself, except for Sherlock Holmes. "God save me..." I finally breathed, pressing my hand to my mouth.   
  
He watched me, his keen eyes following my body's movement as I almost fell into the chair behind me. "All I can ask is why?" He spread his hands in supplication. "Why do you insist on changing this arrangement? I was honored to have your affection and I gave you mine in return."   
  
"What?" I asked suddenly.   
  
"You..." He paused, then closed his eyes, "John Watson, please, please tell me that with your occasionally adequate powers of observation you were able to recognize my displays of affection..."   
  
"What?" I breathed, "What are you... I have never..."   
  
He looked oddly defeated as some of the color left his face. Without opening his eyes, he said, "You... haven't, then." He sighed slowly through his nose and tapped the ashes from his pipe into the fireplace.   
  
"As always, Holmes," I said quietly, my heart pounding in my throat. "Enlighten me, if you would."   
  
He laughed humorlessly, "There are too many things to list. I have always done everything in my power to make you comfortable and see that you were safe regardless of any of my clients or their aggressors... and I have ever tried to be a good friend to you, though my manner is perhaps lacking due to inexperience. As you know, I am not a greater lover of individuals. I have given you small things, concessions, I have endeavored to learn what your favorite songs are and play them for you and I have seen plays that I have thought ghastly but they fell within your interests... greatest of all, I have treated you as my equal in all matters, and where your abilities are below my own, I have attempted to raise you."   
  
Could I believe these strange statements, uttered by this wholly extraordinary man? I asked quietly, "Do you love me, Holmes?"   
  
His response was indistinct.   
  
"What?"   
  
"In my own way, yes."   
  
I stood and walked over to him slowly, "Could it ever be in anyone else's way? In a way that a normal person could consider love?"   
  
He was not much taller than I, but standing before him beside the hearth I felt as though he could crush me with a simple step forward. His breathing had quickened again and he looked almost ill. I had never seen him in such a fit of anxiety, even amidst all of his moods and tempers. He laid his hands on my shoulders and I was suddenly aware that in all of our time together had had only intentionally touched me a handful of times. The larger portion of the time, it was as though an invisible magnetic field surrounded the dark-haired man and repelled any contact. No one touched him; I had rarely even clapped him on the shoulders, and the physical contact between us that stood out most in my mind had been when we first clasped hands at our first meeting, "What would that be? Something out of a sensational novel? Should I kiss you?"   
  
My eyes widened at the prospect and I almost threw myself backwards from his light, but strangely desperate hold, "I don't--"   
  
At that moment, though, the great detective leaned down and pressed his mouth to mine. The slick crush of his lips, made more firm by the pressure of his slightly clenched teeth, was only very slightly different than kissing a woman. My hands moved lightly to his chest, which seemed to startle him for he backed up just a bit. He asked quickly, "Was that what you wanted?"   
  
In my heart of hearts, it was. But at that point in my life, I was not ready to acknowledge my love for Sherlock Holmes. I let out a slow, shuddering breath.   
  
Before I could respond, he said elatedly, "It was!" He licked his lips, "I knew it, it would be."   
  
"No," I protested, backing up slowly, "No, that wasn't it at all..."   
  
His face fell, "Then why did you tell me to do it?"   
  
"I didn't tell you to..." I said, putting my hands up like a shield between us.   
  
He gritted his teeth and his eyes looked oddly glossy, though I'm sure it was a trick of the gaslight and my own romantic imagination. "There you are, again refusing to acknowledge what is mindlessly obvious. You are, as I said before, being intentionally obtuse."   
  
"I am not.” Deeply shaken to an extent that I couldn't recall since the Afghan war, I asked, "Is that what you wanted?"   
  
He was silent for a moment, then he shook his head, "Not at the outset, no. It wouldn't have occurred to me. My feelings for you are deeply intellectual."   
  
I let my breath out in a rush, "Then your feelings are only those of friendship, Holmes..." I am dimly aware now, in retrospect, that it was a mixture of relief and devastation that I struggled to surmount in the most gentlemanly way possible as I continued. "And if that is the case, it should make little difference if I am married or not."   
  
"Of course it will," he said, his voice a flat monotone.   
  
"You will always have my... intellectual fidelity, Holmes."   
  
He looked at me, his keen eyes cutting through me in ways that I had never experienced before and have not since. When he reached for the small, discreet wooden box where he kept his deadliest of vices, he said, "I suppose you have no choice in that matter, Watson. It is a need that Mary simply cannot service."   
  
"Just as there are needs which you simply cannot service. I shall be forced to keep both of you, and how terrible that will be!" I said, laughing softly in an attempt to lighten the mood.   
  
He didn't laugh, but he did finally turn his piercing scrutiny away from me. "Terrible indeed."   
  
Holmes took his box and crossed the room to the doorway of his bedroom, where he turned to me again. He finally said, "Let's not speak of this again, Watson. You are ever welcome in Baker Street, though I feel certain that after your marriage it will be some time before you come again."   
  
"Why would you think that?"   
  
"I know you. Swept away by bliss, you will endeavor to forget this place. I don't doubt that your feelings for Mary are genuine, though shallow. You will be back, though, and it will be at just the right moment. Of this I am certain," He laid his long, slim hand along the doorframe.   
  
"Holmes... I'm not abandoning you or giving up our friendship," I said, trying not to sound as though I was asking the same promise from him. I was, though, and he knew me well enough to recognize it.   
  
At this, he laughed. "I know, Watson. _Et hoc transibit_." He walked into his rooms, waving his little box at me, and closed the door.


End file.
